


Tannin

by froofie



Category: Benedict Cumberbatch - Fandom, rpf benedict cumberbatch
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Honey, POV Female Character, POV First Person, Tea, Tea Porn, benedict cumberbatch rpf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 12:39:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/froofie/pseuds/froofie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I had this tiny story simmering for a while and then saw the pictures of Benedict in the yukata. What else could I do but write it?</p><p>For Jenna L.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Tannin

**Author's Note:**

> I had this tiny story simmering for a while and then saw the pictures of Benedict in the yukata. What else could I do but write it?
> 
> For Jenna L.

The first time Benedict and I were intimate, we kept our clothes on the entire time. 

He made me tea.

It wasn’t even just that he made me tea, it’s how he did it that literally had me on the floor with him.

The evening started out well enough. He tried to take me to an outdoor art showing in London that was supposed to have tons of projections on buildings, interesting light shows and fireworks. We made a good effort at staying, but a random rain shower washed us back to the Tube (wet) and to his house. He repeatedly assured me he would make amends, though I offered no objections to warrant his intent. He let me borrow some of his dry clothes, tossing mine in his washer. He was still in the process of unpacking from the renovation, so from my perch on a counter top bar stool in his open kitchen, I watched him scamper around, searching through unlabeled boxes, scanning the contents for something specific. Eventually I heard a triumphant, “There you are!” from the hallway. He returned with a sleek black tea pot painted with cherry blossoms, two wide matching tea cups with Japanese lettering etched on the bottom of each bowl, and a sturdy bamboo serving tray.

“I brought this back from my last trip. I’ve been waiting for a chance to use it.” His face beamed with boyish excitement.

I silently watched as he went to work. The house was quiet save for the sound of his undertaking. An air of focus overtook him. He put the kettle on to boil. He washed the tea pot, filling it with hot water to keep the ceramic toasty. He washed and dried the mugs. I imaged how they must have felt, being lead back and forth in his large sweet hands under the warm soapy water. He dusted off the tray. He was supremely delicate, as if the set was a living entity worthy of the utmost attention and preparation. From his pantry he pulled out a tin of oolong tea and a jar of honey with a comb visible through the glass container.

A deep climactic bubbling sound rose from atop the stove. The kettle started to whistle, the teapot was emptied and readied for new contents. Tea leaves were methodically scooped and deposited. Hot water flowed over the dry leaves. I watched the liquid fill to the brim, imagining green flakes swelling with new life, dancing and swirling, releasing into the liquid, becoming more than themselves. Steam billowed from the opening before he placed the lid back on it. The rough sound of clay touching clay made me flush at the whole experience. He looked up with what seemed to be cautious hopefulness that I was watching him. I saw his heart in his eyes.

The tea steeped.

He tenderly placed the cups, the teapot, the honey, spoons and serviettes on the tray.

He came around the counter, offered his hand and lead me to the darkened living room, making sure I didn’t trip on the haphazardly-placed furniture. He plugged in a lone lamp on the floor in a far off corner. The room became dim at best.

“Floor or couch?” I inquired, submissive to his vision.

“Floor, please.” I started to sit on one side of an empty wooden coffee table.

“Oh, wait!” He ran into what I assumed was a bedroom and emerged with a pillow for me to use.

I sat, hands folded obediently in my lap, while he returned to the kitchen. The lamp offered an opaque spotlight for his entrance into the living room. He carefully carried the full tray over to me, setting it down almost as an offering. Rain pounded on the windows outside. The light flickered.

I assumed he would get a pillow for himself, but instead, he knelt. He slowly went down to his knees on the other side of the coffee table and continued.

“Honey?”

“Yes, dear?” He smiled at my terrible joke. “Yes, please.”

The jar opened after a bit of force. A spoon dipped in just so and emerged from its sticky vessel, trailing sweetness from its bottom back into the jar. He hovered the silver utensil over one cup and poured the tea over it, melting the amber nectar. A clear dark waterfall fell around the edges of the spoon and into the cup, filling it quickly but leaving just enough space for my lip to dip over its edge without spilling. I felt naked and wanted to kiss him. The spoon tinkled against the walls of the delicate dish as he stirred. He repeated the same with the other mug. Shadows played across his face, making him appear even more graceful, more serene. It became clear he was doing all of this for me. He derived pleasure from giving me my own little tea ceremony. I could not contain my heart, I put my hand over my mouth to trap my feelings, crystallize them inside me. Though he was looking down, I saw one side of his mouth rise up at the sight of my movement.

He placed an unfurled napkin down in front of me and set a mug on top. I waited for him to serve himself. He didn’t. He nodded at the cup and looked at me, expectantly. He rubbed a hand up and down his thigh then licked a bit of honey off his thumb.

“Oh!” I cradled the cup in the red fabric, careful not to burn my hands. I brought the drink to my lips. I blew on the surface, a bit of my own reflection rippled. I inhaled the tangy moist air. I took a tiny tentative sip. Sweet earthy tones spread out on my tongue and blossomed in the back of my throat. I closed my eyes, letting the taste bleed down into my body. When I surfaced from my moment and opened my eyes, he was smiling to himself.

“It’s delicious,” I meant more than that. I meant this: _Thank you for taking care of me. Thank you for reminding me that I deserve to be treated like this. Always._ “You spoil me.” I took another sip, a heartier gulp. He joined me, clearly satisfied and full of the same love that was also beginning to brew in my heart.


End file.
